


Skyrim Isekai

by Fireplace_Dragon



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Aggressive Paganism, But I'll share because I love you, But not an expert, Cussing, Enemies to Friends, Fantasy Racism, Fluff and Humor, For Me, Isekai, Light Angst, MC hates the Silver-Bloods, MC is a socialist, Medical Conditions, Medical Jargon, Memes, Mild suicide jokes, Modern Girl in Skyrim, Modern Girl in Tamriel, Original Character is Not Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Pop Culture, Rants, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, Slice of Life, Some Plot, Suspension Of Disbelief, Transmigration, as a treat, enemies to frienemies, internalized ableism, political rants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-28 14:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30141051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireplace_Dragon/pseuds/Fireplace_Dragon
Summary: A girl from our world poofs into Skyrim right before the plot starts. And she's far from being a hero. What Gisela lacks in, well, everything, she makes up in dark humor and meme references that will be wasted on her clueless audience. Of course, her unusual situation attracts the attention of the Jarl of Markarth, Igmund. He grants his court wizard Calcelmo the chance to study her situation as the condition for her stay in Understone Keep. And her minder/babysitter is none other than the Thalmor Justicar Ondolemar, who has an agenda of his own.A mostly-realistic and highly self-indulgent look at what would happen if a chronically ill, ADHD, disabled, and impudent lady is tossed into a high fantasy world with nothing but the clothes on her back.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31





	1. Enter Markarth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been transmigrated into a high fantasy world!?

It was a turning out to be a very strange day. Upon receiving reports of an odd magical incident in Kolskeggr Mine, Jarl of Markarth, Igmund, sent his housecarl Faleen along with a small detachment to investigate. The court wizard, Calcelmo, sent along his nephew Aicantar as a consultant and observer. Another observer sent along was Queyan, an agent of the Thalmor working under Ondolemar. The party massed at the gates and began the march through the Reach.

The sun was high in the sky when they crossed the bridge that led to the mine. Aicantar made sure to inform Faleen that he could feel the magicka in the air at that time. Everyone was starting to feel on edge, the mer of the group especially. This was no ordinary magic, neither had ever felt anything of the sort before. The air around the mine was buzzing with it, a shimmer visible to even the least magically capable of the party.

It was at this point that Aicantar and Queyan joined the redguard woman at the front of the pack. Both mer had spells ready in their hands, and Queyan had drawn her short sword. The mine itself was eerily devoid of the usual bustle one expects of the most profitable gold mind in the Reach. No clatter of metal to stone and ore, no footsteps, no chattering of miners. Their own feet made echos that reverberated down the tunnels and back, a dripping of distant water, the occasional loose stone clattering to the ground, dust settling on abandoned equipment. The home guards shifted uneasily, weapons drawn.

The tunnel twisted deeper into the mountain, and the scent of magicka grew thicker. Ozone mingled with stale air and metallic dust, becoming more and more choking as they went. The buzzing in the air turned into audible humming, like that of a charged conjuration spell. Like something big was about to be summoned. Faleen’s face twisted into a grimace when Aicantar told her as much. Queyan rolled her shoulders back and insisted that they continue with the lure of a favorable review when she wrote her report later. Neither man nor mer cared much for what she had to say.

Around the bend, they could see the light burning in a large cavern. Violet magicka swirled in the center of the floor, pulsing like a heart beat. Aicantar was voicing a proposal to study the phenomena when the tempo increased. Less than a minute later, the magicka condensed, then shattered. The cave system trembled, then it went dark and silent. A couple of candlelight spells and some lit torches later and they approached the epicenter of the magic event, where an organic looking lump sat. Then it lifted its head.

Before them sat a small human woman, likely of breton origin, wearing fabric across the lower half of her face. She had a wild mass of curls that puffed off of her head and came to rest at her shoulders. She seemed to scowl at them, squinting with surprising intensity. She was on the fatter side of human commoners, and dressed very oddly. A thin shirt clung tight to her skin, the neckline cut low enough to give ample view of her cleavage. Definitely a grown woman, despite her stature, no mere girl would be so… Endowed. She wore a skirt that began at the narrowest part of her generous waist and fell to the middle of wide thighs. Her footwear was a simple sandal, with two leather thongs that connected the side of the sole to between her first two toes and a third to connect the two behind her ankle. The woman frowned even deeper, blinking slowly in the torchlight.

“Have you seen my glasses?” She asked, muffled ever so slightly by her cloth mask. The cave was quiet, except for the crackling of the torches. “You know, glasses?” She lifted her hands and made circles with her fingers, which she then held in front of her eyes. “Unless y’all don’t speak English, in which I’m fucked.”

“Do you mean… Spectacles?” Aicantar hedged, obviously boggled by her manner of speech.

“Yeah sure,” the woman said, beginning to pat around the cold stone floor. Then she stopped, put her hand into a pocket in the folds of her skirt, and withdrew thick black framed spectacles. She unfolded them, settled them on her mask covered nose and turned to look back at the group from her seat on the rocks. Then she just stared.

“I am Faleen,” Faleen started, likely eager to end the awkwardness of the introductions sooner rather than later, “Housecarl of Jarl Igmund of Markarth.” The woman blinked at her several times. Then she inhaled deeply and exhaled. Inhaled, then exhaled. Then pinched her arm.

“Ouch!” She hissed, rubbing the spot on her arm. The eclectic group behind Faleen exchanged confused glances, and one twirled a finger near their helmeted temple. The woman looked up at everyone and sighed. “Well this is definitely not a dream.” She stated as though it was in question.

“It is considered polite to exchange names when one first meets another,” Queyan said, feeling her temper growing short. The woman turned to her and adjusted her spectacles with wide eyes. “I am Queyan, I serve the Thalmor and Aldmeri Dominion. And you are?”

“Oh!” The woman said, “Sorry, I’m Gisela. Hello.” And she waved from where she sat on the floor.

“Pleasure, my name is Aicantar, assistant and nephew to the Jarl’s court wizard.” The altmer lifted his hand to wave back, if slowly and clumsily, to mimic her greeting. “If I might ask, is there a reason you’re still sitting on the dirt floor?” Gisela looked down at the grimy stone and her brows furrowed again.

“Well,” She began, looking rather long suffering for a woman who appeared out of thin air in a summoner-free conjuration spell, “I would love to stand up, but I’m a bit light headed and if I try I will definitely fall down again.” She blinked a couple times and rubbed the back of her head, “Where am I, by the way?” Faleen offered Gisela a waterskin and began to explain the events as she was aware of it. Gisela tugged down her mask and poured water into her mouth without letting the vessel touch her lips, looking more uncomfortable as the story continued.

“Do you have any idea what may have brought you here?” One of the assorted nord men asked, “Some kind of ritual maybe?”

Gisela shook her head, swayed in her seat with a crease between her brows and blinked again. Then she tugged her mask up and handed the waterskin back to Faleen, “No. I was getting ready to go see my friends at the park, then I felt dizzy. I must have blacked out because the next thing I know-” She made a popping noise with her lips, “I’ve been isekai’d.” It answered none of their questions and only made everything more confusing, strange words aside.

“Is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all?” Aicantar asked hopefully, “Or is there really no explanation.”

Gisela shrugged, “I’d give my left tit to know more than I do now,” someone choked and coughed, “But I’m going to assume divine fuckery until proved otherwise. Or I’m hallucinating, maybe I’ve cracked and I’m in a nuthouse somewhere lost in delusions.” The bizarre breton glanced at Queyan, then at Aicantar, “But somehow that seems less likely.” Once again, more questions raised than answers given.

“Divine fuckery?” an imperial hedged, Queyan didn’t care for frontline guards much. Fodder for Reachmen, no sense learning their names. Gisela nodded, then swayed again.

“Well yeah,” She said, “Loki’s pranks are legendary, and even Odin All-Daddy gets up to his own shenanigans.” This woman wasn’t just incredibly foreign apparently, she believed in a completely different pantheon. The group from Markarth watched as she began to use her hands to reposition her legs, rubbing feeling back into her practically bare feet. She huffed and looked back up, “I’m going to need help to stand up and someone may need to catch me.”

Faleen grasped Gisela’s forearm and hauled her to her feet, only for Gisela to wobble on her legs like a newborn foal. She squeaked when a nord woman wrapped her arms around her for stability, then what was visible of her face turned red. “Ah, thanks. Sorry.”

Aicantar watched in poorly disguised intrigue as Gisela’s feet and legs began to turn deep red and the skin swelled slightly. “Is this something that normally happens to you?” He asked. The woman blinked up at him, tiny thing she was. Shorter than the average breton.

“Oh yeah,” She said casually, as though she wasn’t being held upright for risk of collapse, “All the time. Every time I stand up, blood goes from my head to my feet. ‘S why I’m so dizzy. By the way, if you want me to go anywhere I’m going to need a good walking stick and a lot of time to get there or someone needs to carry me.” It barely took a few minutes for the most pack horse like of the lot to be decided upon and Gisela was helped to his back. She clung to him, muttering apologies for the inconvenience.

“Don’t worry about it,” the nord said, “Easier than fighting mages or forsworn. Gods know we thought we’d find daedra worshipers, not a strange lass.” Gisela balled her hands in his cloak.

“Just you wait,” She teased, a smile in her eyes, “I’m more trouble than I’m worth by far.” The man laughed. Queyan made sure to follow the pair as closely as she could without being overtly obvious, gathering information that she would need when she reported to Ondolemar later.

The march back was much more lighthearted, Gisela was curious about Markarth and the Reach. She asked questions about Skyrim, and about Tamriel as a whole. She asked about politics and religion and social relations. Questions that implied she was somewhere far far away from Tamriel. When asked about her home, on the other hand, she clammed up. When she wasn’t dodging questions, her answers were vague, and she had to pause and consider her words with care. It was suspicious, and Queyan didn’t like it at all.

“May I ask why you cover your face?” Queyan asked, something the altmeri woman felt should have been brought up earlier.

“I don’t want to catch the plague,” Gisela said casually. Of course at the mention of a rampaging disease, everyone grew tense, but the woman didn’t lose a moment “There’s a big global panini going on, and I’m vulnerable enough as it is. Shit’s dangerous if you’re healthy, worse if you’re as fucked up as I am. Fuck.” She shrugged her shoulders and huffed. The steam of her breath fogged the glass of her oddly thick rimmed spectacles.

“That is… very concerning,” the nord carrying her said slowly, “What do you mean you’re fucked up?” Queyan was already reassessing her first impression of the strange breton. Not only was she ridiculously foreign, foreign in a way the Dominion had never seen before, but she was likely touched in the head as well. Gisela was too nonchalant about her situation, about her homeland’s current problems, and her own claim to lameness. ‘Disabled’ she said. It was downright bizarre.

When they approached the gates of Markarth, Gisela went quiet and wide-eyed. “Impressive, yeah?” the nord whose back she was carried on asked her. She nodded and looked about with a tension in her body that had Queyan questioning whether or not the woman had ever been in a city before. The way her eyes darted around and took in her surroundings with something akin to fear was reminiscent of a cornered beast.

The climb up to Understone Keep was no more troublesome than it usually was, though made more amusing by the irate mutterings of Gisela. The breton seemed to have decided sometime long ago that stairs and slopes were among the worst inventions in existence. A claim that Queyan was rather entertained by. Useless as the woman seemed to be physically, she had a talent for being funny in her own strange way.

Gisela cowered ever so slightly as the door guards let the group into the Keep. Her prior bluster gave way to a more situationally appropriate fear under the watchful eyes of the guards patrolling the stone halls. The Jarl was seated in his throne, his court, with the addition of Ondolemar, waiting for their arrival.

“Faleen,” Igmund said, his back straighter in his seriousness, “That didn’t take nearly as long as we feared. Report.” It wasn’t a question. As Faleen explained what they’d found in the mine, Gisela was gently lowered to the floor where she proceeded to balance herself carefully with a hand on her pack mule of a nord’s arm. At the mention of the mysterious summoning, all eyes turned to the breton.

“Uh, hello.” She waved awkwardly, “I’m Gisela. I, uhm, I’m not from around here.” There was a round of huffed chuckles. Igmund quirked a smile of his own.

“I think we’ve gathered that, girl. What can you tell us about this… Incident?” He prompted her. Gisela swayed ever so slightly, her legs a dark red that contrasted dramatically against the pale color of her sandals.

“Uhm,” She said, eyes big and wet, “Your people know more about this than I do I think,” there was some murmuring amongst the thanes and between Aicantar and his uncle Calcelmo. “Teleportation is scientifically impossible as far as I know.”

Calcelmo spoke up, “Not exactly,” All eyes turned to the old altmer, “Portals exist, though they take a vast amount of magicka to sustain. Without them, the Champion of Cyrodil would not have been able to kill Mankar Camoran. In the old days before the eruption of the Red Mountain, the Mages’ Guild had specialists who could connect their guild houses through portals.”

“The cake is a lie,” Gisela muttered, far too quietly for the court to hear, though a few of the people nearby raised eyebrows at the statement. Then she spoke up, “We don’t have anything like that in America.” That set the thanes tittering.

“And where is this… America that you’re from?” Ondolemar asked then, “I have never heard of such a place. Is it across the sea from Tamriel?”  
  


Gisela stiffened, “Well, funny story,” she began, “The United States of America is the-” she counted her fingers, “One of the biggest nations in the world. And most of the world has been discovered. I’ve never heard of this place in the little bit of geography included in social studies. So as far as I can guess, none of the-” she stopped to count again, “seven continents on my planet includes a Tamriel.” Several people roared in outrage.

“The girl must be mad!” shouted Thongvor Silver-Blood, representative from the Silver-Blood family “How is such a thing possible?”

“Calcelmo, what do you make of her claims?” asked Raerek, Igmund’s steward. The wizard inhaled deeply, then sighed.

“It is rather outlandish and improbable,” he said, “But it is possible. We know for a fact that there are other planes of reality. Oblivion, Aetherius, the Void. Perhaps there is more we have yet to discover. Madness or not, we mustn’t discount her. Not now.” Calcelmo then turned to the Jarl, “I would study her, but I am already overworked as it is. I have precious little downtime that I can devote to researching this possibility. I cannot take her on full time.”

Jarl Igmund’s posture relaxed and he settled into his usual feline lounge, “It is indeed a mystery, one that I find myself fascinated by. Gisela,” The woman was swaying on her feet, despite the arm she held for support, “I offer you a place to stay here in Understone Keep as a guest. In return, I will assign a minder, as you are likely unfamiliar with our customs and frail of body. In return, I want Calcelmo to study you, try to understand what brought you here and what the effects of this summoning are or will be.”

“Works for me,” Gisela said weakly, “I’m honestly looking forward to sitting down. Any longer and I’ll just sit where I’m at.” Igmund laughed at that.

“Then I shan't keep you much longer, as for who will act as your guardian...” His eyes wandered those assembled, “Ah, yes. You’ve been awfully idle of late, Ondolemar. Perhaps this, ah, pet project, will keep you from getting too bored here. The Thalmor headquarters still have plenty of space for more guests after all.” The Justicar grit his teeth, but forced a smile at the nord.

“Of course, if that is what you wish. I too, find myself rather intrigued as well.” He turned to stare at the aforementioned breton, who shrank under his eyes. “I will take very good care of her.”


	2. The Unending Workday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I discover healthcare in a high fantasy world!

The woman was clearly touched in the head. Ondolemar inwardly cursed his misfortune, to be saddled with such a strange and useless human. As though he wasn’t already busy enough, he had been forced to take care of this new burden as though she was a pet in need of minding. Granted, the possibility of planes beyond the void would be incredibly interesting to his superiors, he was the one stuck with the madwoman.

Said madwoman had declared her intent to explore not long after Ondolemar had her brought to his office for observation. She had fidgeted for a bit as he dealt with the overwhelming amount of paperwork before making her proclamation, then tottered off on unstable legs. Ondolemar wasn’t very concerned about her, to be truthful. He had most of the information he needed from his agent, the rest he could collect from Calcelmo over time.

It was not at all surprising when she was escorted back to his headquarters roughly an hour later, looking very tired. She muttered something about needing a new cane before she dozed off slumped on the stone table. The guard who brought her had found her sitting outside the kitchens, sipping salted broth from a cup. Ondolemar made a note regarding her preferences, Gisela’s file was starting small but he was sure it would grow bigger with time. It would contain whatever important information he would need to include in his reports, but if there was something important know about humans from this ‘America’, every last detail could establish a pattern.

Gisela was unconscious for several hours, which was beneficial in regards to the stack of paperwork and reports Ondolemar had waiting for him. When she stirred at last, Ondolemar quietly glanced her way. The wild mess of mouse brown curls on her head was mussed and her eyes bleary with sleep. She looked around the room, blinking and furrowing her brows before she turned to him.

“Oh,” She said, slowly pushing herself to sitting upright, “It’s still happening.” Gisela shifted, tilting her head to one side and then the other. There was a sickening crunch of bone as she seemed to put herself quite literally back together.

“What is still happening?” Ondolemar humored her, curious as to whether or not her sleep addled state might loosen her tongue. Gisela blinked again, rubbing at her eyes and adjusting her strange spectacles.

“I’m not dreaming,” she yawned, “am I?” The altmer wondered about her mental state, and then about how different her home must be if she was so quick to recall her circumstances so soon after waking. “It’s just like the fanfics.” And then Ondolemar questioned her sanity again. Agent Queyan had reported that she used strange words that made no sense despite the context, a report that was clearly true.

“What is a fanfic?” Ondolemar asked, hoping to gain at least a little insight. Gisela yawned again and arched her back, releasing another series of popping noises.

“Fanfiction,” She grumbled, “Fiction of an already existing fiction written by fans.” That was an interesting term, Ondolemar thought to himself, for a word that he didn’t realized needed a unique name of its own.

“Fascinating,” he remarked, though his tone was a touch drier than he’d intended. The look Gisela leveled him with was impressive, considering how little of her face he could see. “Still with the mask? Whatever plague your homeland is dealing with doesn’t exist here.” A change of topic might be in order.

“Depends,” the breton said, helping herself to water from a pitcher Ondolemar kept in the office, “Have you ever heard of germ theory?” Ondolemar waited patiently for her to continue, watching her take a moment to replace the mask after her drink, “Disease is caused by life-forms smaller than the eye can see, and is usually caused by bacteria, viruses which are like tiny machines that try to destroy you from the inside out, and occasionally fungus.” That was… Unexpected. Swiping a piece of scrap parchment, he made a quick note about this “germ theory” that Gisela proposed.

“That is something that ought to be looked into,” he remarked, to which the breton crossed her arms and radiated some combination of contentment and smugness. Then she went rigid as a board.

“On that note,” she began, nervousness laced into each word, “How’s healthcare in Markarth?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What happens when someone gets sick?” She tried again.

“If they can afford it, they seek out either a priest or an alchemist for diagnosis and treatment. Why do you ask?” Ondolemar was quite curious as to her intentions with such information.

“Oh,” Gisela said dumbly, “I don’t have any money.” Ah.

“As your minder, your well-being is my responsibility.” Ondolemar assured her, though the thought of being in charge of keeping a human of all things in good health was degrading.

“That’s some shit luck, dude,” Gisela said, and Ondolemar promptly lost his train of thought. “I’m probably going to die soon.” Ondolemar pressed his fingers to his forehead to stave off an impending headache.

“And what brought you to that conclusion?” he asked with a long-suffering sigh.

“I have a lot of damage, and I take medicine several times a day every day to be able to function at the minimum level,” Gisela told him, picking at her fingernails, “Stopping one without a taper is bad. Stopping all of them is going to be hell. The withdrawal could kill me.” Ondolemar prayed to Auriel for strength, this human was going to be more trouble than he could have ever imagined.

“Fine, fine, I will alert the Jarl to your impending demise,” he waved towards the world in general with his free hand.

“I’m glad you understand,” Gisela said, as though it was that simple, “Maybe a priest or an alchemist will help with the pain a bit...” She trailed off, whatever mutterings she spoke muffled by the cloth mask still on her face. Ondolemar sent an agent to inform Jarl Igmund of Gisela’s revelation.

To say that Jarl Igmund was displeased to discover that his newest and most intriguing young guest might die mysteriously so soon would be a massive understatement. Ondolemar soon found the Jarl, Calcelmo, and the breton alchemist Bothela crowding his now comically undersized office.

“What sort of potions do you take?” The old hag asked. The list that Gisela gave, just describing her conditions and how many kinds of medicines she takes for them, it was beyond what anyone could have guessed from her overall demeanor, nor from how easily she spoke of it.

“That is...” Calcelmo trailed off, unsure of what to say to such a pitiful young woman. Said young woman seemed irritated by it.

“C’est la vie,” she said, her tone growing short, “That’s how it is on this bitch of an earth.” Bothela cackled at the girl’s sharp wit.

“I think I like you,” the old breton said with ease, “I can mix up something that will take the edge off of your pain and help you sleep while your old medicine clears your system. Igmund, you should talk to that priest of yours in the Halls of the Dead. Or a priestess from the temple of Dibella. The old medicine will be poison in the girl’s veins until she is clean of it. They may be able to assist her recovery.” Bothela was interrupted by a sniffle. Gisela sat in the middle of everything, wiping at red rimmed eyes.

Ondolemar took the pause in the alchemist’s directions as an opportunity to write down everything that was wrong with this breton woman from another plane. And what she implied that the “healthcare” of said plane was like. It was a fascinating concept, he’d ask about it more after the humans finished their emotional outburst. Ondolemar retracted his prior thought when he saw even the curmudgeonly Calcelmo was participating. He didn’t think the old altmer was capable of softness with anyone except that redguard housecarl, shameful a puppy love as it was.

Gisela, blessedly, seemed to share his level of tolerance towards this sort of display and was quick to usher everyone out of the office. She sniffled and wiped her nose on her too-tight shirtsleeve before replacing the mask.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” she said, voice thick with feelings, “Still not used to people being so...” she gestured with a hand, “like that.” Ondolemar could hardly care less. Bothela, bedside manner aside, was more interested in the payment, while Calcelmo and Igmund were worried about their novel little guest dying before they could make her useful or study her. Ondolemar had more important things to think about than one complex little breton.

“If you’re truly sorry,” he decided aloud, “You would let me get back to my job.”


	3. Boredom in Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I ranted at high fantasy capitalists and they got uncomfortable!

Gisela had been in Skyrim for a week, and she had spent almost all of it wracked with withdrawals. Magic was wonderful, between sessions of restoration magic with Aicantar and Bothela’s potions she wasn’t feeling any worse than she would have felt during a very bad flare. Which was to say she felt like shit and she almost wished she were dead just so she wouldn’t have to deal with being corporeal anymore. The Thalmor were exactly what she’d have expected, Calcelmo was a softy at heart, and she didn’t trust any of the politician types who would come to ask questions about her home. Part of her wondered if the Thalmor hated her more for bringing them wandering in whenever the mood struck.

She hated the beds, she loved the linen clothing she wore while bedridden, and she absolutely loathed how little there was to do. Books were wonderful, she had a few on the side table (none of the lewd stories she'd read samples of in game), but her hands ached too much to turn the pages and her arms too weak to even support the weight of a single thin storybook. People watching was highly limited by the people who came to the Thalmor’s makeshift headquarters, and despite Ondolemar’s apparent need to keep an eye on her, he was about as entertaining as watching paint dry.

The altmer always had some microaggression (or macroaggresssion) on hand to wield if Gisela tried to engage him in conversation, and his note taking habit whenever someone talked to her was beyond irksome. Of course, she wasn’t up to crawling out to a busier place like the throne room, she could barely deal with the chamber pots. Weren’t dwemer supposed to be this highly advanced race with their amenities lasting literal ages after their disappearance? She wished they had invented toilets.

Of all the isekai tropes, she got to keep her original body when she was yanked through to a video game world. Her own awful, beautiful, and broken body and still had to complete almost a full month of withdrawals. Luckily, she’d been coherent enough in her shock to ask questions whose answers she knew or suspected, and that they wrote off her surprise at putting faces to names as general nervousness. Her brain fog was a blessing in disguise in this situation, despite prior knowledge of this world and the political situation in Markarth she was on the slower side of recall which made the Thalmor across the room think she was either dumb or distracted. Which was fair.

Speaking of, Gisela now wanted throttle the fans who thirsted for some of these people when they were just numbers in a machine. The real deal, the kind that wasn’t scripted or programmed to act a certain way toward the main character, were so much harder to figure out. Gisela’s fist clenched the wool blankets and fur that was piled on her to help her sweat out the drugs. It was too hot, she was fidgety, and the skin of her fingers already had a few too many scabs on it to keep picking at if she could help it. She had to do something.

“What do you think you are doing?” Ondolemar’s smooth voice broke the silence after she tossed the blankets back to let her body cool. Gisela leveled him with the most withering glare over her dampened mask that she could manage.

“It’s hot,” she said curtly, “If I sweat much more I’m going to dehydrate myself.” She’d done it before, it sucked.

“Then drink more water,” the infuriating man said, as though that wasn't also part of the problem.

“The cup is too heavy to lift that often,” Gisela pointed out, already having been in this situation enough times to have multiple rebuttals handy, “and the more I drink the more I piss and the more you have to sit there and listen to me piss.” Ondolemar’s quill stopped moving.

“Must you be so vulgar all the time?” he asked, turning to level her a look only to freeze and start turning an odd shade of blood orange (it’s fucking red), “Cover yourself up, woman, have you no shame?” Ondolemar closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose like he always did when she was getting to him. A glance down to see what had him so flustered revealed that excessive sweating and thin light colored clothing made for a very transparent combo. Especially when one was prone to swamp boob.

“Yes,” she decided firmly, “I am contractually obligated to be vulgar at least five times a day. And no, shame is for you ableds who don’t have to keep getting naked for doctors and med students.” Ondolemar flushed deeper, whether it was frustration or embarrassment Gisela didn’t know. But she knew how to find out and even the horrid ache in her bones wasn’t going to stop her now. She didn’t need to move to talk. “Besides, you’re a big boy. Haven’t you ever seen a nipple before?” The altmer choked. Point for Gisela.

“Why you-” Ondolemar sputtered, “That is none of your business!” Ah, getting angry at someone who is actively looking for buttons to push. A rookie mistake.

“You keep using words but all I’m hearing is ‘no’,” Gisela told him frankly, "Because that definitely wasn't a 'yes'." She wondered if he was going to blow a gasket if she kept this up. Ondolemar was opening his mouth to say something else that probably wasn’t going to be a hard yes or no when there was aknocking of metal on stone. That agent Gisela had met that first day stood there, gauntleted knuckles to the wall, face smooth and blank but eyes full of mirth. Queyan. Who was definitely trying not to laugh at her superior’s predicament.

Gisela gave her the most innocent of smiles, knowing the crease of her eyes would show what the mask hid, and let up on poor Ondolemar as Queyan delivered her paperwork for review. She listened to the elves talk, already bored again, something something suspected Stormcloak sympathizers. Poor fuckers, nothing like classic red vs blue politics where both options are shit. Damn Todd, was this supposed to be a caricature of American politics? It feels like a caricature of American Politics. Fuck.

Oh, more guests. Gisela jerked herself out of the roller coaster of ADHD as well as she could at the moment, which wasn’t much but she was at least paying attention. Mostly. This time it was two big nord men. She could tell they were nords because they were very tall, almost as tall as an altmer. Ouch, now who’s being kinda racist? The men approached her bed under the watchful eyes of her keeper, and she self-consciously pulled the blankets back up.

The shorter of the two men was dressed in quilted looking finery, while the taller was one that she had definitely seen in the Jarl’s court. The one that thought she was a nutcase. Then it clicked. Silver-Bloods. She pressed her hand on the side of her jaw, relishing the loud pop and the wince from everyone in hearing range, and thanked the gods that they would now mistake her clenched teeth for some kind of cripple bone thing.

“Well met,” the fancy pants man said, “My name is Thonar Silver-Blood, this is my elder brother and family patriarch Thongvor. I had some questions about the country you come from that I hoped I could ask.” Gisela noted both Thalmor quiet down dramatically, and Ondolemar slid her file closer to himself. Thongvor must have noticed too, because he shot the elves a look that would kill if such a thing were possible.

“Shoot,” Gisela said. When the men gave her a confused look, she sighed dramatically and said, “That means go ahead.”

“What are your country’s main exports?” Thonar asked. Gisela laughed. He was right to the point for sure.

“Fuck if I know, dude,” she said, “It doesn’t concern the little free-loaders like myself. I think my state does coal, but it’s been coal since at least the 1800's.” The Silver-Bloods exchanged looks.

“...Could you explain that a little more please?” Poor man needed a bone thrown to him.

“My country is fifty-two tinier countries in a trench coat pretending to be a giant,” Gisela said, relishing the look of alarm on the bastard’s face. “Not counting a few territories that conservatives will still argue as being foreign despite what the passports say. Each tiny country is called a state, and a state is like a very very big hold. We have the big head honcho and his people who rule over the states and the big laws, and smaller governments who manage the littler things with their own taxes and laws. Governors and senators and representatives of the people, shit like that. All of them were elected. No! Most of them.”

“Sounds complicated,” Thongvor chimed in. Of course, he was the family politician. This was his language she was speaking now.

“It’s called a democracy,” Gisela continued, sensing the opportunity to rant. She always loved a good rant, “but it’s honestly more of an oligarchy with the illusion of choice. The people in charge pretend to care about the common folk, but do the bare minimum to appease the majority and the rest is tax breaks for their rich buddies or wars for oil. It’s such bullshit.” Thonar looked like he wanted to intervene, but Gisela didn’t give him an inch, “And the corporate leaders like to think they’re better than us because they have money, as if money saved the last of the French monarchy from the guillotine. Fucking let them eat cake. We’re starting to remember how effective mobs are for dealing with their types. Unions exist because the miners and factory workers used to just drag their bosses out of their homes in the middle of the night to lynch ‘em in front of their whole familys. This is the peaceful option. I’m a democratic socialist myself, you know. The government should be for the people, by the people. What good is a society if it doesn’t serve the participants? That’s what a society fucking is!”

“That is a very interesting situation,” Thongvor said, “Can I ask you about-"

“Anyway!” Gisela interrupted, winded from the rant, “Eat the rich is our rally chant. Super catchy, we put it on shirts and shit. My head is killing me and I'm very tired.” The nords went silent. “What did you want to ask me about again?”

“You look rather peaked,” Thonar said cautiously, “Perhaps we should continue another time.” Gisela stared them down with a triumphant glint in her eyes the entire time they walked towards the exit. The moment they were out of hearing range, Queyan cracked.

“That was… Certainly thrilling,” she gasped between muffled laughing into her hand. Ondolemar even seemed amused, probably grateful to not be on the receiving end of Gisela’s rambling for once. Gisela sagged into the straw mattress, exhausted by the effort of talking so much. Worth it though.

“I’m gonna pass out now,” she told them frankly, and then she did.


	4. Medicine and Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I confuse and annoy the hell out of an elf again!

Ondolemar was cursing his misfortune once again. He’d been babysitting this mad breton woman for a good two weeks at this point, and she had been bed bound the entire time. His superiors were intrigued by the initial report he had sent after her arrival had turned Understone Keep on its head, and they wanted him to take advantage of her proximity to learn more about this new plane. Ondolemar was upset, yes, but he was resigned to it at this point.

The human was bored often. Her illness meant that her options for keeping herself entertained were minimum, and she’d been alternating between humming and mumbling incomprehensible music lyrics, staring at nothing and everything at once, and making people uncomfortable. Ondolemar had learned rather early on that Gisela was a petty woman. She derived a rather sadistic amount of glee from making her unfortunate audience squirm. She’d debate politics and religion with anyone who brought the topics up, and described a body’s inner processes in excessive detail. He had gotten used to her lack of modesty because she seemed to scent weakness like a hunting hound. Now that she was dealing with her monthlies, she had gone straight past annoying and into insufferable.

Gisela was currently writhing around on top of the bed and blankets. Her arms wrapped around her middle, holding a hearth warmed stone to her belly. After a few days after her “eat the rich” rant, she’d decided to forego her mask when there was no one within several meters of her person, so now Ondolemar could see her full range of facial expressions. She been doing little besides moaning and whining and complaining about the pains lately and Ondolemar had mostly tuned her out. Though, he had noted that she had very complex words to describe what was happening to her body.

“Dysmenorrhea” was one such word, which he learned from overhearing a conversation with Bothela. It apparently was the name of the pain a woman felt during her monthlies. Gisela had described it as being “comorbid”, or amplifying and being amplified by, other conditions. She’d mentioned a dysfunction of the pelvic floor muscles, the spasming of which, when combined with the dysmenorrhea, could pinch nerves in parts of the body that would cause her to crumple like a puppet with cut strings. It was apparent that her homeland was ahead of them in science and medicine by leaps and bounds, considering her knowledge. Gisela even confessed that what she knew was minuscule, and she’d only learned it to better explain her own conditions to the healers.

His only relief from the near constant stream of noise from the woman was when she was asleep, or when one of his agents helped her outside for fresh air. The agent named Queyan had taken a liking to the strange girl, and Gisela apparently liked her back well enough to chatter nonsense at her. Queyan’s reports of such outings were lacking greatly in important information, but full of context for some of the breton’s odd manner of speech. He now at least had a definition for the word "meme", which the woman was very fond of.

“Ondolemar.” The mer was yanked rudely from his thoughts, and he turned to look at the object of his aggravation.

“Yes?” Ondolemar asked, pouring as much vitriol into the word as he could manage.

“I miss music,” the woman said, her face smooth minus the pained crease between her brows, “At home I could have all the music in the world at the tip of my finger.” Ondolemar scrambled for his notes. “Now I’m here and everything is so quiet and I can’t drown out the noise in my head.” Now this was an interesting line of conversation.

“How could such a thing be possible?” he asked, “All the music in the world?” Gisela grimaced and her spine jerked into an uncomfortable looking arch.

“Grk-” she choked out, muffling her pain as she seemed wont to do. She hissed and swore under her breath before continuing, desperate for any kind of interaction it seemed. Or a distraction from the ache. “Yeah, the internet. I miss that shit. I could see what people were doing and thinking across the globe. People would put music out there, just recording it and uploading it for everyone to hear. I could listen for hours and hours.” Gisela’s eyes turned distant and fond. She seemed to have a passion for it.

“That is...” Ondolemar was unsure of what to think about this “internet”. The name was suggestive of the purpose. A network of some kind.

“I don’t know how it works,” Gisela admitted tightly, breathing herself through another cramp, “Machines running on weakened lightning, turning ones and zeros into words and sound and images. Instant connections to anyone else with access. Sharing art and writing and memes and shit. Fuck, I miss videos!” Ondolemar’s quill paused. There were too many new concepts to process. She’d talked about “videos” in the past. Like moving paintings, memories of people and places and animals. Theatrical performances taken to levels beyond anything he could imagine, she’d told him. Ondolemar was rather offended that she thought so little of his ability to understand such ideas, but at the same time, it was rather fantastical. Like memory crystals but so much _more_.

“I see you thinking,” Gisela said, forcing a teasing lilt, “Don’t think too hard or you’ll hurt that pretty head of yours. Or maybe your face will get stuck like that.” Ondolemar scowled at her. Pretty face? Him? She grinned at him cheekily. “Yes, like that! Total Kodak moment!” And she was back to her incomprehensible self. She rolled on her back and proceeded to choke on another swear of pain.

“Rather vexing creature, aren’t you?” Ondolemar muttered, doing his best to transcribe the concepts she’d brought up. Something like this “internet” would be incredibly useful to the Thalmor, if they could create such a thing. He scratched away for a while, making his way through reports and giving orders to agents who filtered in slowly. Business as usual, peace and quiet. Gisela, as always, loathed it.

“I have an idea,” she piped up when she could no longer contain her need to shatter his focus again.

“What?” he said more than asked.

“Yeah,” Gisela said, “I should meet a local musician.” Ondolemar let his head drop to the desk, ignoring Gisela’s victorious whoop. She delighted in making him so fed up that he broke his composure. Were it not for her unique origins, he’d have throttled her miserable neck long ago. “Seriously, Ondolemar! I haven’t sung in ages and I'm out of practice and even though everything hurts I have so many songs in my head that I _neeeeeed_ to get them out! I teach some songs to a bard and they help me not sound so out of practice that I make your ears bleed! I see it as an absolute win!”

Ondolemar stared her down. Gisela met his eyes without fear.

“I can totally keep bitching at you if you prefer. I’ve got Jewish blood, kvetching is in my veins. You know I can go all day.” They glared needles at each other for several heartbeats. Ondolemar sent for Queyan. He needed her to find a bard.


	5. A Cultural Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I met a bard and we swapped music!

Yngvar was not sure what to expect when he was approached by a Thalmor agent in the Silver-Blood Inn. He’d watched with bemused interest as the high elf tried first to speak to the bard, Ogmund, only to be rebuffed before she could get her words out. He’d been hoping to see some action, but was quite surprised with the Thalmor instead approached him.

“I’m here on behalf of the… guest of Understone Keep,” she said, all prim and noble. Yngvar wrinkled his nose, both at the mention of the breton that had his employers in a tizzy and at the high elf in general. He had no love for the Thalmor, nor for the empire, but muscle wasn’t paid to talk.

“What about her?” he asked, taking a good long drink.

“She had requested,” there was a hint of mirth in the otherwise stoic woman’s eyes, “a bard. She is interested in the music of Skyrim and wishes to share some of her own.” That was an interesting proposition. Thongvor had been agitated about a breton claiming to be from another plane, one their scholars knew nothing about. Then Thonar returned to the Treasury House looking pretty damn out of it. He’d asked about exports and got a political tirade.

“Tempting,” Yngvar said, putting all the years spent in the Bard’s College to good use, “but what’s in it for me?” Working for free was off the table despite how interested he was in seeing this apparently vexing woman.

“We’ll pay you in coin of course,” the Thalmor dog assured him, “Or we can negotiate another appropriate payment if that does not interest you.” Yngvar feigned a mild air of disinterest, finishing off his mead. Black-briar of course.

“I’ll talk to the lass,” he agreed after he’d held the elf in a sufficient amount of suspense, “but I won’t promise anything.” The smile the woman gave him was almost unnerving. She had a glint of anticipation in her eye that almost made Yngvar regret accepting. But he was a true nord, and a man of his word. He’d go speak to this outsider, and see what she was made of.

Gisela, as he was introduced, was even more bewildering in person. She was on a bed in a room with a desk shoved into it, Thalmor Justicar doing paperwork on it, and wearing a cloth mask over the lower half of her face. She pushed herself carefully to sitting on trembling arms, which were surprisingly thin.

“Merry meet!” she said cheerfully giving him a wave, “I’m achy as balls right now or I’d be meeting you somewhere else. My name is Gisela, yes the rumors are probably true.” Her cheery facade may have been fooling some, but Yngvar could hear through it. The woman was miserable.

“I’m Yngvar the Singer,” he said, “My pleasure.” She blinked at him, a glint of something in her eyes that was rather curious.

“You don’t look much like a bard,” she said, mask flexing as her eyes crinkled. Smiling no doubt. “Where I’m from, the word bard calls to mind brightly colored clothes and a feathered cap.” Yngvar laughed at the thought.

“I get more gold swinging an axe than I do by singing songs,” he told her, “But that doesn’t mean I’m out of practice. I am curious about how music sounds in your homeland.” Gisela looked up thoughtfully.

“Hm,” she hummed, “So many options to choose from. I was hoping to hear some local favorites so I can get a sense of what people here like. I can’t parrot instrumentals, so there’s only so much I can share. Lyrics that might need context too. It’s so complicated, but when in doubt I can always go with a working song.” Yngvar was looking forward to his time with the breton, despite the looming of the elves behind him.

“I didn’t bring an instrument,” he said, “but I don’t need one to sing. You?”

“A capella, nice,” she said, “I can roll with that.”

Yngvar started off simple, with a rendition of Ragnar the Red. Gisela listened, with a giggle at the ending. He sang Age of Aggression, and he sang more ancient songs such as Sway as We Kiss, and some popular drinking songs. Gisela clapped to each one, delighted by the performance.

“What sort of songs were popular in your country?” he asked, drinking water to sooth his voice.

“That’s a loaded question,” she said rather bluntly, “It depends on genre and location and personal preference. There’s such a thing as too many options and we had it. If you asked me my favorite style I’d freeze up.”

“What songs would you recommend to me?” he asked instead. He watched Gisela pause for a moment.

“I’d suggest the folk genre, though I couldn’t say whose folk music you’d like more. It’s just the closest to what you’ve sung. Russian folk tunes are very different than Irish after all, even if you ignore the language barrier.” He’d never heard of those countries, he was intrigued. “I know a few translated versions. There is that one...” she trailed off.

She shifted in her bed, carefully but not carefully enough going by her wincing. “I can’t stand up so this is the best I can manage for breathing. There’s a song written by a man from Ireland, but I learned of it listening to musicians from Finland. It’s called ‘ _Over the Hills and Far Away_ ’.” Then she took a deep breath and sang.

_They came for him one winter’s night_

_Arrested, he was bound_

_They said there’d been a robbery_

_His pistol had been found_

_They marched him to the station house_

_He waited for the dawn_

_And as they led him to the dock_

_He knew that he’d been wronged_

“ _You stand accused of robbery”_

_He heard the bailiff say_

_He knew without an alibi_

_Tomorrow’s light would mourn his freedom_

_Over the hills and far away_

_For ten long years he’ll count the days_

_Over the mountains and the seas_

_A prisoner’s life for him there’ll be_

She wasn’t the best singer, but she was expressive in her face and her voice carried the emotions of the story. In spite of what he assumed was missing the mark on several notes, she had potential. He wondered if she’d ever had a teacher.

_He knew that it would cost him dear_

_But yet he dare not say_

_Where he had been that fateful night_

_A secret it must stay_

_He had to fight back tears of rage_

_His heart beat like a drum_

_For with the wife of his best friend_

_He’d spent his final night of freedom_

_Over the hills and far away_

_He swears he will return one day_

_Far from the mountains and the sea_

_Back in her arms is where he’ll be_

Adultery? This was a very interesting song that she’d chosen to sing. Yngvar regretted not having paper with which to write it down.

_Over the hills and_

_Over the hills and_

_Over the hills and far away_

_Each night within his prison cell_

_He looks out through the bars_

_He reads the letters that she wrote_

_One day he’ll know the taste of freedom_

_Over the hills and far away_

_She prays he will return one day_

_As sure as the rivers meet the seas_

_Back in his arms again she’ll be_

_Over the hills and far away_

_He swears he will return one day_

_As sure as the rivers reach the seas_

_Back in his arms is where she’ll be_

_Over the hills and far away_

_She prays he will return one day_

_As sure as the rivers meet the seas_

_Back in her arms is where he’ll be_

_Over the hills_

Her voice softened and slowed as she brought the ballad to a gentle close.

_Over the hills and far away_

_Over the hills_

_Over the hills and far away_

Gisela pulled her mask below her chin to drink, looking surprisingly pretty in a youthful way. She was somehow both older and younger than he’d expected. Younger looking, but there were lines in that face that told of more experiences than a newly of age lass would have had.

The Thalmor woman that had invited him clapped, a genuinely delighted smile on her face. Yngvar hadn’t known the stuck up elves were capable of such things. Gisela grinned back, yet to replace the cloth on her face. He didn’t know why she wore it, but she was a foreigner and they were always trouble. This one, despite barely being able to walk, was more than anyone seemed to have expected. He hadn’t come to see her to do more than satisfy his curiosity, but if this was just one tidbit of songwriting in her mind from what she implied was a library of otherworldly genius, he wanted to know more.

“D’ya want me to write that down?” she asked him, tugging the mask back up, then paused and corrected herself, “I’d get someone else to do that, my wrist is jacked and my handwriting is illegible on good hand days.” Yngvar understood maybe half of that. The Justicar at the desk sighed as if this sort of behavior was constant. He then plucked up a roll of paper and a charcoal stick that the agent from before accepted. She sat at a smaller table and transcribed as Gisela went through the lyrics again.

“What is a pistol?” The Justicar interrupted.

“Like a tiny crossbow that you can hide on your person really easily,” Gisela said, not even having to think about it, “Loud as fuck though.” Yngvar found himself feeling almost fond for the breton and her casually filthy mouth.

“How does that work?”

“Do I look like a fucking engineer to you?” was the snappy reply. The nord bard turned merc faked a cough to hide a laugh. The girl was fearless it seemed.

“Not really,” Yngvar said, “What do you think you look like?”

“An art school drop out,” Gisela told him, eyes crinkling in a smile, “I was getting too powerful so the gods had to nerf me.” Someone in the room choked, one of the elves most likely. Her smile dropped. She adjusted her odd spectacles and brushed some of her wild brown hair behind her ear.

“You’re a funny one, I’ll give you that,” Yngvar said slowly, a bit caught on the wrong foot by the sudden change in mood.

“I try,” she said, “I’d sing for you more but I’m very out of practice. Oh, thanks Queyan.” The agent from before brought over the paper, the song written out in a neat and precise hand. Yngvar grunted a thanks, accepting the paper, which he then folded and stashed safely in a pocket.

“I’m looking forward to more.” he said honestly. As he left the keep, giving a nod of acknowledgment to Thongvar, he found the odd woman’s song was stuck in his head. He hummed the melody, making his way down the slope back to the inn. Gisela may not have the voice of a nightingale but she had a way of making herself memorable, that was for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over the Hills and Far Away, written by Gary Moore in 1968. Gisela mentions the cover performed by Nightwish in 2001, but her singing is meant to be less metal and more like Patty Gurdy's 2018 cover.
> 
> I am legally required to make my main characters enjoy singing. I gotta.


	6. Accidentally a Scholar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I yelled at a Thalmor about anthropology and religion!

There were pros and cons to the introduction between Gisela and Yngvar the Singer. She’d made a new friend to talk to, which was all well and good, but the important part was that Ondolemar was discovering how many secrets and cultural relevance could be hidden in a song. Asking her to elaborate on a line’s context produced a wealth of information, much of it useless to the Thalmor, but helpful in making sense of other details. The major downside was that she was fixated on music. Attempting to write down whatever songs came to mind took up much of her time, time that she wasn’t using to harass him anyway, but she tended to mumble while she did it. And in the breaks she took to rest her hand and massage her wrist, Ondolemar had discovered that she had the unfortunate habit of murmuring a few lines from one song before switching to another. Mumbling aloud thoughts between. And that was the cause of his current headache.

“Low-key fuck twenty twenty,” she sang under her breath, just loud enough to be annoying, “Still sad, still ain’t got no money.”

“The grammar is atrocious,” Ondolemar knew that engaging her was at his own peril, “And what does that even mean?” Gisela tilted her head at him wonderingly.

“Grammar is stupid and doesn’t believe in dialects nor the natural evolution of language,” she pointed out, “You people have a calendar yeah? I heard someone mention it once, portioned off into months based on the lunar cycle?” Ondolemar narrowed his eyes. That was an exceptional level of detail for such a distracted creature. “Same with my people, the majority religion reset the year back to 0 in regards to the birth their god’s mortal avatar slash son. Well, the pandemic hit my country early in the year two-thousand and twenty. Write it out and you get twenty twenty.”

“You said they reset the year?” Ondolemar asked curiously, having asked her about religion prior and gotten a long winded ramble for it, “What was it before they reset?”

“Fuck if I know, I’m a peasant,” That was a shame. “We do number the years prior to that backwards.” And now it’s nonsense. Ondolemar raised a brow at her but she was making a face at her wrist.

“And what purpose does that serve?” Gisela looked at him like he was stupid.

“My current calendar says the year is two thousand and twenty-one AD. If I told you something happened in the year two thousand BC, that would mean it happened roughly four thousand years ago.” Ondolemar hummed, making a note. It did make sense when one put it that way.

“For a self proclaimed peasant, you are highly educated.” It was meant to be complimentary, but the woman guffawed. The gall.

“The education system in my country has socialist roots,” she said with a grin, “I got nearby schooling from the age of five to eighteen for free.” Ondolemar paused. An education system that was funded by taxes, free to all children? That would make for an overall more powerful country, would it not? It would certainly benefit Auridon. Ondolemar found another piece of paper and began to brainstorm, a term Gisela had used once and, while ridiculous, was a good word nonetheless.

“I think Yngvar will like this one,” Gisela mused after a while, “Work songs for the working class after all, appropriate for the location, shouldn’t be any mystery words in here that I’d need to change in case he decides to sing it in the tavern. Oh. Fucknuggets! I forgot that bit.” The apparent need for creative swearwords that Gisela’s homeland had was rather silly, Ondolemar thought almost fondly.

“By the eight,” he groaned, regardless, “What is the problem now?”

“How faux pas is it to sing a song about unity when you’re in a foreign country that’s engaging in civil war?” Ondolemar put his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Foe pah?” he asked, already exhausted of putting up with the woman.

“A big social blunder. Don’t ask me to spell it, French is full of unnecessary letters.”

“Then it would probably be a very large social blunder,” Ondolemar said, ignoring the mention of France. Gisela groaned aloud.

“Argh! I’ll put this one to the side then,” she folded the paper and set it further away from her on the tiny wooden table next to her bed that she was sitting at. Her legs crossed and knees to the side, because her feet swell if they hang over the side of the bed. Because she could do so many things one takes for granted poorly. Pulling forward a clean sheet, she scratched an itch on her face the smeared charcoal across her cheek and nose. Ondolemar decided not to mention it. Aicantar would visit later to check on her recovery, and she would probably be mortified, but it would be nice if she was the one embarrassed for once.

“I’m a bitch, I’m a boss, and my shine like gloss,” Gisela mumbled again, tapping a finger on the stone, deep in thought thinking up a new song to share. Noise aside, Ondolemar went back to work, only to be interrupted again by a loud snort. He gave her the most withering glare he could muster.

“Sorry,” she said softly, unnecessary since he’d already been distracted again, “How prudish are people here and would a song about masturbation be appreciated?” Ondolemar schooled his features and took deep breaths. His ears felt hot and he felt incredibly annoyed.

“Nords are uncivilized folk,” he ignored her mutter of ‘seems civilized to me’, “They will like delight in it, disgusting as they are.” He leveled her with a glower, “I was under the impression that bretons are supposed to be of a higher stock, but it seems I was wrong.”

“Blood purity is bullshit and inbreeding is what made the Hapsburg jaw possible,” she paused, “A dramatic but non-lethal physical deformity caused by a royal family refusing to lower themselves enough to marry anyone of a lower social standing. Don’t marry cousins. Unless they’re like third cousins, but I think that’s still risky.”

“Rambling,” Ondolemar reminded pointedly.

“And sex jokes have been around since people were civilized enough to invent prostitution, which is the oldest profession in the world according to scholars!” she was really getting started, “We have translations of crude jokes dating to well over six thousand years ago, at least on my world. Times change, technology changes, people never change. And I think that’s true of your people too.” Ondolemar scowled.

“And what would a foreigner know of my people?” he asked, baiting her.

“Enough,” she said, “Enough to know that no matter where you are in the multiverse, there will always be war and cruelty and bigots. Enough to know that people will always find a reason to justify oppression. Modern humans on my world are the only advanced species, we don’t have elves or orcs or khajiit or argonians, but we didn’t need them to be like this. Instead, we made it about skin color. We made it about religion. There’s always going to be some backwards, fucked-up, and blinders wearing asshats who believe themselves superior because something they made says so.”

Ondolemar was rather speechless. She let loose a rather large amount of information regarding her world. A world where there was only humans? She had been dodging questions so often that he never realized it. Humans who behaved superior to other humans for the same kinds of reasons the Dominion had begun their crusades in the first place.

“Thor hold me back,” the woman muttered, eyes closed, “Because I am about to smack a bitch.”

“Humans, wielding the same divine right as the altmer?” Ondolemar thought aloud.

“They thought they were justified because their God made them better than others,” Gisela added, “Because the holy book written by a human from their country and culture said so. That book has been edited hundreds of times over thousands of years and people still wield it as a weapon of superiority. We've had our bloody crusades, we just call it something else now.” She scribbled aggressively at the paper. Ondolemar glanced over and saw a very odd tree, cradling circles in its branches and along its trunk.

“This is the World Tree, Yggdrasil. Tree of the Cosmos. My religion is one that is being found again, slowly, after the Christians converted the old worshipers and rewrote the texts. We’re struggling though, we have too many backgrounds and differing opinions to agree on practice,” Gisela sounded wistful, tired, “Yggdrasil holds all the nine realms in its branches, and is also called the Tree of Knowledge.” She pointed at the circles, “Ásgarð, where the Aesir gods reside. Vanaheim, of the Vanir gods. Álfheim, home to the elves of light. Miðgarð, my realm, made from the body of a dead giant named Ymir. Jötunheim, where the giants reside now, primal gods of nature. Múspellsheim, the realm of fire. Svartálfaheim, where the dusk elves live. Niflheim, a realm of the dead, where those who die of old age or sickness go, sometimes called Helheim. And Niðavellir, sometimes Myrkheim, where the dwarves live.” Ondolemar drew a sharp breath. Dwemer? But in a realm of their own? And Ymir sounded a lot like Ysmir, though their roles in mythology seemed very different. Ymir was more like Lorkhan, names aside.

“Ondolemar,” Gisela broke him from his stunned reverie, tone lighter, voice weaker, “You’re thinking too hard again, hun.”

“Perhaps you will tell me of your gods some time. I am curious of… potential overlaps,” Ondolemar hoped he did not sound too shaken. Gisela gazed at him serenely, too much so. There was a knowing look in her eye that he did not like, and then she smiled warmly. Like she was humoring him. Like she could see though him.

“Of course. You have a report to write after all, and I wore myself out. Aicantar will wake me up if I’m still sleeping when he gets here.” She wiped her hands on her blankets, charcoal still smudged on her nose, then curled up facing away from him. Ondolemar picked up his quill and dipped it in ink only to stop before he touched it to the parchment. Gisela was blissfully silent, as though she didn’t just give him an overwhelming amount of world changing information. If humans in a plane so separate from his own had carried out the same mission as the Aldmeri Dominion, numerous times, and failed, what did it mean for his own people? If humans from another plane believed there was a world where there was only dwarves, did it mean that could be where the dwemer vanished to?

Ondolemar looked at the breton again. No, not breton, he told himself. There was no High Rock, no mingling with ancient elves where she was from. Just a human. Only a human. Ondolemar stared at the now sleeping woman and stood, walking over to her drawing. It was surprisingly detailed, but she had previously claimed to have been a student of art.

A monstrous beast was nested in the roots, eating them. A smaller bird sat on the head of a larger one in the highest branches, and four deer were eating leaves from the tree. A squirrel clung to the trunk. Gisela had turned the charcoal flat and filled the space around the tree and its planes black. Like a void. The fine hairs on the back of Ondolemar’s neck stood on end. Could there be more connections between her Earth and Mundus than he first thought? And what did that mean for her appearance here? Now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So y'all ever start writing a dumb self-indulgent self-insert just for kicks and accidentally make it deep? Because I think I just did. I have no idea where I'm going with this people.
> 
> Gisela doesn't actually sing much but these are the songs she mentions/sings bits of:  
> F2020 by Avenue Beat  
> We All Lift Together by Keith Power for the game Warframe  
> Boss Bitch by Doja Cat  
> Twiddles by Misbehavin' Maidens (If you like raunchy sea shanty type songs this one is fantastic and seriously NSFW)


	7. Of Plagiarism and Prime Directives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I may have just upset every dwemer scholar in Tamriel!

Aicantar enjoyed his visits with the otherworldly young woman. His skill in restoration magic was improving by leaps and bounds over the past several weeks, and she way always polite and friendly towards him. She had no hangups over sharing information she had in regards to how medicine and science differed in her homeland, and though her jokes made little sense, her honesty was a breath of fresh air in politics of Markath.

He’d begun to examine and carefully undo what appeared to be years of internal scarring, asking questions about the interesting way she was pieced together. Evidence of old injuries repaired. When healing a slightly slipped mandible, he discovered gaps where four teeth should be. Her reaction to being told was highly informative and incredibly fantastical.

“We call them wisdom teeth, they’re mostly vestigial at this point. Useless. Left over from when my species’ ancestors had smaller brains and larger jaws. They’re prone to coming in kinda crooked and can mess up the rest of our teeth if they do so if they get impacted, we remove them,” Gisela said, enjoying the opportunity to ‘sound smart’ as she put it. When asked if she didn’t think she was smart other times, she simply said that she has approximate knowledge of many things and barely anything she can easily apply to life.

Gisela was hissing through her teeth as he fussed at her wrist. It was horribly inflamed internally. She called it carpal tunnel syndrome with a repetitive motion injury. Or “I used my hand too much and it got mad at me”. She had the silliest manner of describing things, a scientific way and a humorous way.

“Ondolemar!” she called to the Thalmor Justicar looming in the background of what was both Gisela’s bedroom and a public space combined, “Remember what I taught you about desk yoga!” she squeaked as Aicantar worked gently to reduce the irritation around the nerves in her wrist, “Do not repeat my mistakes!”

“And what mistakes would that be?” Aicantar’s uncle, an expert on the ancient dwemer and falmer cultures, walked in, carrying several scrolls of varying colors and ages.

“Neglecting taking care of oneself,” Aicantar said, testing the woman’s range of motion.

“Why would you say something so true but so hurtful?” Gisela asked him earnestly but lightly, making him laugh. Then she grinned beneath her mask and huffed a small laugh of her own.

Ondolemar stood and spoke to Calcelmo in hushed voices. Aicantar saw the Thalmor produce a charcoal drawing to show his uncle. When he turned to his patient, he saw Gisela staring with deep crease between her brow and a breathing a soft "oh no".

“It won’t help to worry,” he told her gently, “It’s bad for the healing process.”

“My mind is about sixty percent worries on a good day,” was Gisela’s quick retort, “Besides, I have a feeling I know what this is about and I don’t like where this is going.” Aicantar lifted a curious eyebrow, but was interrupted by Calcelmo’s approach.

“This is fascinating stuff, my dear,” the old mer said, looking at the drawing. Aicantar saw it was a tree, with beasts and circles, surrounded by black, “You told Ondolemar that one of these ‘realms’ was inhabited by dwemer?” Aicantar’s brows shot up.

“Dwemer?”, Gisela asked.

“Some people call them the Dwarves.” Calcelmo tried again.

“Oh! Yes, though to be honest we’re still not completely sure which one. Some think that they live in Svartalfheim, and are the same as the dusky elves, others say they’re in Niðavellir. Either way, they live in the dark, have skin as black as the void, and are renowned across the realms as the greatest smiths and craftsmen.” Gisela stopped, then tilted her head with a curious look at Calcelmo, “Does that help?”

Calcelmo was had spread his papers across the nearest surface and was writing frantically, “Indeed! This could be revolutionary! Perhaps the dwemer went to your cosmos when they vanished from Tamriel, it would support several theories as to their disappearance.” Gisela’s face went pale, then flushed vivid red.

“My religion and its mythology is just one of hundreds,” she protested weakly, “It’s a minority religion, really-”

“Thank you! Thank you for agreeing to speak with me about this,” Calcelmo continued.

“Actually-” Gisela tried again. Only to watch rather helplessly as the scholarly mer bundled his papers into his arms and took off at a brisk pace. She looked at Aicantar and Ondolemar helplessly, “I think I just broke the prime directive or something. If I claim fairy circles, maybe it won’t apply to me..?”

Gisela was rather quiet for the rest of the healing, though it was mostly calming whatever internal irritation was making her pain worse, their sessions were usually rather short. Now she was having an episode with her abnormally rapid heart that had Aicantar fumbling to calm. She seemed quite deep in thought, only broken by a soft humming and watering eyes.

“Far over the misty mountains cold,” she sang, low and with a tight voice, “To dungeons deep, and caverns old. We must away, ere break of day, to seek the pale enchanted gold. The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, while hammers fell like ringing bells. In places deep, where dark things sleep. In hollow halls, beneath the fels...”

“It’s beautiful,” Aicantar said, reverently.

“It’s part of a great story, an epic,” Gisela murmured, barely loud enough for Ondolemar to hear from his desk, “Of dragons and lost homes, dwarves and wizards and small folk and adventure. War and peace and magic. It means a lot to me, a lot to many people.” She wiped away a tear just before it fell. “I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to go home.” Gisela’s voice broke with a muted whimper and she sniffled.

Aicantar froze up, unsure how to comfort a teary-eyed human woman. He awkwardly put his hand on the least sore of her shoulders, and she forced a huff of laughter.

“I’ll deal with it, I’ll need to cry sometimes but that’s okay. As long as I don’t give up,” the flex of her mask implied a big smile, though the mer didn’t believe it for a second, “Irregularly scheduled breakdowns are normal and good for you.”

“Well, it could be worse,” Aicantar admitted thoughtfully, before realizing that might not be the best way to be supportive. To his surprise though, Gisela just laughed.

“That is true,” she giggled, rubbing her thumb over a picked short fingernail, “I could have ended up somewhere more remote, died of exposure or killed by beasts. I could have been completely alone here.”

Aicantar breathed a sigh of relief that he’d been more helpful than harmful and she laughed again, sounding lighter.

“I do like the grim humor, by the way,” she teased him, her eyes smiling a little more over the now ratty looking cloth. Then she leaned back into her pillows, groaning as her spine popped loudly. “Maybe I’ll retell the story from before. The Hobbit. It wouldn’t be as good as the original, I’m not a skald, but it would be new to everyone here and comforting to me.”

“I would like to hear it,” Aicantar told her honestly.

“Hey,” Gisela said, “If I got help to write down stories from Earth, d’you think I could get rich?”

“Blatant plagiarism aside?” the Justicar asked over his paperwork, “There is a chance of it. But I question your morals.”

“Oh no!” she said, feigning distress, “I’ve been tossed into another world and I have no money! How will I ever survive?” Gisela snorted, “I may not be the brightest bitch on the block but I have an avenue I can take. Besides, how many bards do you know that write down and perform nothing but their own original shit? Even musicians back home will sing their takes of other people’s songs. When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” She shrugged and Aicantar was almost mesmerized by the feedback the crunching of a loose shoulder sent back through the restoration spell.

“If you insist,” Ondolemar said, “tell me about Rome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the plot that I accidentally tripped over. Dwarves and Norse lore verses Nordic lore. 
> 
> She sings the song/poem lovingly dubbed Song of the Lonely Mountain, written by John Ronald Reuel Tolkien (Jolkien Rolkien Rolkein Tolkien) who never actually named it. The melody is the arrangement by Maury Laws used in the 1977 Rankin and Bass animated The Hobbit film. Howard Shore (who also scored Skyrim!!!) played with this arrangement for the 2012 Peter Jackson movie.


	8. Informal Education

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I learn more about magic while rumors spread!

Sounds like the plot’s started, Gisela mused to herself. She’d been clinging to Queyan’s arm (gal had some muscle like damn) with one hand and leaning on a wooden cane near the throne room when she first heard. The Keep was abuzz with the news. Tulius had had Ulfric Stormcloak in Helgen, then Helgen was destroyed by a dragon, and now the war was still on. The Thalmor had gotten antsier, but Gisela had felt so much tension leave her body knowing for sure that she wasn’t some anime protagonist, she was pretty sure her minders were suspecting her of being a rebel sympathizer. A reiteration of her previous political speeches (she felt like an old timey communist preaching to factory workers... Almost) nipped that line of thought in the bud.

The more scholarly of the many altmer in Understone were still looking at her like she was some kind of key to a complicated code. Like the solution to the puzzle of the ages. Calcelmo visited more often, performing some kind of odd magic tests. Perhaps seeing how a being from across the void reacts to the powers of Aetherius? Aicantar already discovered that her body reacted well to restoration magic, she wasn’t resistant like some transmigrants in stories. Neither was she overly sensitive.

Gisela did learn that her body had started to accumulate magicka. The look on Calcelmo’s face when he asked if she’d been born under the sign of the Atronach only to be told she was a Pisces still gave her the giggles. Aicantar had taken to talking with her as his uncle worked his literal magic, listening to her rambling stories, and doing his best to accommodate her questions about Tamriel.

“I can’t believe that dragons really exist here,” she gushed at him, “I used to be obsessed with them as a kid, I loved reading about them.”

“The stories are incredible,” Aicantar agreed, “Though it is a shame they’re so dangerous. And now that they’re back...”

“I wonder what else here is real that my world thinks are myths. Like actual myths and not just extinct.” Gisela said, “Unicorns?”

“Real, but very rare.”

“That’s sick, what about mermaids?”

“A woman with a fish tail? I’ve heard stories, but I think they’re myths,” Aicantar shrugged.

“Well that was an easy one to be honest, every continent on my world has several countries with myths about fish-human hybrids. What about shapeshifters?” Gisela made an undignified squeal as her entire left leg was overwhelmed with a pins and needles sensation.

“Apologies, m’dear,” Calcelmo said, and the feeling faded out quickly, “There are indeed men who change their skins to that of beasts. Wolves and bears mainly. It is a curse from Hircine.”

“Hircine is… one of the big demon lords, yeah? Daedra?” Gisela asked, as though this was new information to her and not a previous hyperfixation.

“Correct!” Aicantar smiled, “You learn quickly.”

“Immersion learning is a hell of a motivator,” she waved off the compliment. Internally she preened over the praise. “Yngvar has been telling me legends and stories. Now that the dragons are back, I won’t be surprised if there’s going to be a theme with the next few. Oh, everything alright Calcelmo?” Gisela watched as he dragged a wooden stool over to sit on.

“By now you should have stockpiled enough magicka to try and learn a simple spell. It would be helpful for you to learn the most basic restoration, so that you can care for yourself as needed. Over the course of the last two months, you should’ve gotten a good feel of a healing spell. What did it feel like to you?” Gisela froze, gaping at the mer.

Ondolemar’s ever-watching gaze came down on the small gathering hard, but he didn’t say anything. Perhaps curious to see what happened? If she learned healing magic, she could be more independent, even just a little. She might be able to walk without needing a person to hold her up, just her and her custom stick. No being in constant terror of getting stuck after a fall. To just, patch herself up and keep going.

“It-” she croaked, then paused to sniffle and clear her throat, “It feels like mint oil, cool without cold, and tingly. It’s soothing, like putting your hands in a cool stream on a hot day.”

“Good,” Calcelmo smiled in a grandfatherly way, “It feels a little different to everyone. Now think about how that feeling, focus it into your hands.” Gisela almost wanted to laugh. She’d grown up neo-pagan, Wiccan, before she found calling in more Heathen practices. This reminded her of being young being taught how to ground herself and her energies. Was modern witchcraft and fantasy land magic really so close? Was being able to visualize the movement of energy in her mind and body all there was to it?

Focus. She closed her eyes, best to start without the visual noise. Inhale 1, 2, 3, exhale 1, 2, 3, repeat. She imagined herself, a crude map of everything she could sense. The tremble in her chest as she controlled her breath, the sound of bone creaking where her vertebra connected to her skull, the slow and regular slipping in her hip that came with gravity pulling her down, the tingle of neuropathy in her feet.

Healing magic was cool and soothing, aloe on a sunburn or an ice pack on an inflamed joint. It was stepping into an air conditioned building in the summer, without the coughing of temperature sensitive lungs. In the game it was golden light and the chime of bells, like some kind of holy miracle. Being actually in Skyrim, it was light still, but the skin itself was what seemed to glow. But Gisela had breathed the belief in magic with her first breath, was raised to know that her magic was her own will.

In her mind's eye, she looked at her core, the pit of her chest where her diaphragm and lungs were. Next to and below her heart. Where she ached or swelled in emotion. She imagined a soft haze, like the mist of morning dew dissolving in the waking light. She visualized the mist condensing in her veins, running through her body, down her arms and into her hands. Focus on the coolness, focus on the balm.

“That’s it,” Calcelmo said encouragingly, “Incredible, on the first try too...”

“As I will it, so mote it be,” Gisela murmured, muffled by the mask, a secret smile on her lips. It was cheesy, a piece of Wiccan “tradition” that was stolen from the Freemasons, but it felt appropriate. When she opened her eyes, she saw a soft glow around her tingling palms. It faded as she lost her grip on the feeling. “Woah...”

“Amazing, you’re a natural,” Calcelmo praised, “You grasped the concept with such efficiency-” he was cut off when Ondolemar swept in to stare Gisela down.

“How interesting,” the Justicar almost drawled, “that someone who claims to be from a world without magic could be such a prodigy.” Gisela’s pride turned sour.

“I never said my world didn’t have magic,” she pointed out, “Just that we didn’t have anything like the magical feats _here_. We have the concept, but it’s different.” Ondolemar stood up straight, looking down his nose at her. “Magic is ritual and intent and incantations. If you want something, you strengthen yourself to take it or you bargain with the universe to give you the opportunity. It’s not lights and flashy fire or instantly fixing a cut. It’s finding harmony in what’s around you and within you, tapping into it for guidance and luck, to nudge the fates to help or harm. It’s the lifeblood of the universe.”

“Any yet you managed with the magic of Aetherius just fine,” Ondolemar pointed out, and Gisela wondered if he just wanted her to spell it out for him to hear her say it or if he actually missed her point. He usually picked up on things very quickly.

“I was a practitioner back home,” she leaned back against the pillows propping her up, “Moving internal energies is used for a lot of things in neo-witchcraft. I’ve been doing it as ‘grounding’ since I was old enough to sit still for long enough. Call it cheating, but I was moving Aetherial magicka long before I had any!” Gisela glared, huffing through her mask. Ondolemar held the stare, but didn’t say anything to rile her up further.

It occurred to Gisela at that moment that she tended to info dump when she was angry or frustrated. Ondolemar purposefully irritating her in order to make her rant was definitely in character for him, and he got more out of it than she did. Even if she got to take his silences after as a victory. Calcelmo and Aicantar just happened to be caught in the middle of the spat this time.

“Sorry about that,” she apologized to them. They waved it off politely, quick to cover up their discomfort. “Does that visualization trick help with learning other spells?”

“If I said ‘no’, would you try anyway?” Calcelmo asked. Gisela nodded, and he sighed. “It does, a little. But it is incredibly unwise to practice without a more practiced mage around in case of problems.”

“I’m childish, not a child,” Gisela teased with a smile in her eyes, silently thanking Tyra Banks for the smize, “I actually was thinking about practicing more after I calm down. Is it safe for me to keep casting Heal?” Calcelmo glanced over at the Thalmor, who had returned to his desk.

“...It should be alright, as long as you are not alone. But do not attempt anything new with an instructor such as myself or even my nephew.” Aicantar almost pouted at being acknowledged as barely qualifying, but seemed to think better of it.

“Thank you,” Gisela said with utmost sincerity, “You don’t know how much this means to me.” It could help her survive all the shit Skyrim was looking forward to after all. The mainland didn’t just have dragons, but there would be vampires brazen enough to make the Dawnguard form. If she could heal… Maybe she would stand a chance in this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The version of Skyrim that I play is rather modded, which got me to thinking. Now that the Dragonborn is in the picture, I'm considering including some of the DLC followers from various mods. Thoughts?


	9. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I sing and distribute existential crisis's!

Swapping stories and songs with Yngvar was always a highlight of Gisela’s day on those days he came. She was exhausted afterwards, dozing for at least an hour before some ache or pain woke her, but she was lighter for the routine. The stories she told him of heroes and greatness always had some underlying current of the consistency of human nature, she spoke of the folly of gods and the hubris of men. She sang of love and pain, of anger and longing.

Ondolemar would always find himself thinking about what he heard for hours, sometimes days. It was painful, the feelings of doubt Gisela seemed to stir in him. How such a frivolous and excitable human could stir such feelings in him, Ondolemar did not know, but he found it infuriating. One moment, she would be rambling about some inane curiosity, the next she would say something so deeply profound that it made his head spin.

Gisela, of course, was already aware that she was prone to such a behavior. “It’s how people with ADHD think,” she’d said, and the implications of its normality was alarming, “We make connections in our minds so quickly that other people think we’re changing topics but in reality, we’ve been reminded of a dozen related things all stemming from a single thought.”

And now, she was sitting here, telling the nord mercenary and bard about some “bog man’s” lyrical poetry. “It’s so intense and passionate, but he’ll be singing of something so normal and silly.” It reminded Ondolemar of Gisela.

“You’ve got my attention,” Yngvar said, “Maybe you could give me an example?” Gisela was grinning, eyes crinkled and worn out mask pulled up over her nose. Ondolemar fished out a fresh piece of paper and quill.

_Honey, this club here is stuck up_

_Dinner and diatribes_

_I knew well from the first look of_

_The look of mischief in your eyes_

_Your friends are a fate that befell me_

_Hell is the talking type_

_I’d suffer hell if you’d tell me_

_What you’d do to me tonight_

_Tell me_

_Tell me_

_Tell me, ah_

There was a gleam of roguishness in her eyes and she sang. Her time with Yngvar had improved her vocal control and the pain relief from repeated restoration magic gave her better breathing, making her performances all the better.

_That’s the kind of love_

_I’ve been dreaming of!_

She went from singing with a teasing tone, delivering the lyrics almost casually to crying out for the world to hear. The sounds carried enough for the stone walls and ceiling to reflect the words, reverberating in the room and halls.

_That’s the kind of love_

_I’ve been dreaming of!_

_Honey, I laugh when it sinks in_

_A pillar I am, upright_

_Scarcely can speak for my thinking_

_What you’d do to me tonight_

_Now that the evening is slowing_

_Now that the end’s in sight_

_Honey, it’s easier knowing-_

_What you’d do to me tonight_

_Tell me_

_Tell me_

_Tell your man_

_That’s the kind of love_

_I’ve been dreaming of!_

_That’s the kind of love_

_I’ve been dreaming of!_

As Gisela crooned, Ondolemar questioned what silliness she’d claimed was hidden in the song, somewhere within the discomfort of what was such subtly erotic lyrics. She was naturally coarse in nature, but to hear her sing such intelligent lasciviousness was leaving him... Discomfited.

_Ooh!_

_Let there be hotel complaints and grievances raised_

_And that kind of love_

_Ooh_

_Let there be damage ensued and tabloid news_

_And that kind of love_

_Mmmm..._

_That’s the kind of love_

_I’ve been dreaming of_

_Ah_

_Oooh!_

_Ah, that’s the kind of love_

_I’ve been dreaming of!_

_And that’s the kind of love_

_I’ve been dreaming of!_

Picking up her cup for a drink of water signaled the end of the song, and Ondolemar sat back and looked at his paper. There wasn’t much written on it, distracted by his thoughts like he was.

“It’s sexy,” Gisela said, only a tiny bit hoarse in the throat, “It’s romantic too, yes?” Yngvar agreed with that review. “What is silly about the song is that the man who wrote it, the bog man part is a joke by the way, the man who wrote it said that it’s about the relief one feels when leaving a social gathering that they didn’t want to attend in the first place!”

Yngvar laughed wholeheartedly, a deep belly laugh. “It makes sense,” he agreed, “It’s poetic and beautifully written, you sang it well.” Gisela pulled up the mask and blushed a fair amount.

“You helped with that part,” she waved him off. Ondolemar noticed how despite her appreciation for praise, she often seemed wont to try and convince herself and others that it was not entirely deserved. It was another one of her irksome habits.

“You can only sharpen a blunt sword so much before it’s gone completely,” Yngvar was fond of weapon analogies, “You had it in you, I just helped you hone the skill.” Gisela looked ready to object, but wisely held her tongue.

“A very pleasant song. It suits your voice,” Ondolemar added, uncertain as to why he felt left out nor why he was annoyed by it. “I would be interesting in hearing more that this ‘bog man’ wrote. Or perhaps something of a similar level of poetic.” Yngvar was nodding, oh how it must pain him to agree with an elf, but Gisela gave an anxious flap of her hands.

“You would?” she looked ridiculous, even with half her face covered, gobsmacked by the comment. How such a small utterance could affect her so was quite amusing. “I mean- sure I guess. I can pick something else he wrote or something like that. N-not today but next time? I need time to think.” It was a little cute, Ondolemar thought, seeing her flustered and tripping over her words. It brought a paltry sense of satisfaction to turn the tables on her, to make her squirm, but what satisfaction there was was so very sweet. Ondolemar found that he could understand why Gisela enjoyed causing others to fluster so often. What fun!

Eventually, as with all things, Yngvar’s responsibilities sought him out and he bid Gisela farewell. Ondolemar returned to his duties, and Gisela rested. Rather than sleep, she had recently begun to spend more time in meditation. Much like priests and monks. Only Gisela was learning to make restoring her body more instinctive. They'd heard talk of the Greybeards, men discussing how they could shout like dragons. Of course, it took years of careful meditation, which was where Gisela had gotten the idea. Th whispering had picked up after all of Skyrim seemed to shake one day, with a crack of distant thunder the cry of “Do-vah-kiin”.

With word spreading about the appearance of a Dragonborn, so too did talk of Talos and Ysmir. Of course, the mortal man who allegedly ascended was a dragonborn himself. It was getting more difficult to suppress Talos worship when his name and variations henceforth was on everyone’s lips. Ondolemar was duty-bound to deal with any cases of non-compliance towards the Concordat, but he found himself hesitating more often.

“Most of the popular religions have legends of mortals gaining divinity,” Gisela had told him once, “Apothesis is present on almost all the continents in some form. Why do the Thalmor hate it so much? If a Dragonborn is made by Auri-El or Akatosh with the soul of a dragon, of his children, then are they not his child? Talos isn’t just mortal, but part god. Why can’t a demigod achieve true godhood?”

Ondolemar had been unable to form a rebuttal, but he could not keep himself from returning to it. The question was so innocent, so simple, but it made him wonder. The mer had been forcefully removed from the immortal Aetherius, spirits given form, but they were not handcrafted by Aedra like the dragons were. The dragons, theoretically, were still immortal. Their souls could not be forever sundered, no true death existed for them, not without a dragonborn to devour them. Perhaps mer were superior to men, but if all dragonborn had been human, were they favored by Auri-El more than the mer?

His stomach turned and his head ached at the thought. Ondolemar put his quill down with an inward groan, and glared at the source of his stress. Gisela was reclined peacefully on the bed, eyes closed and mask up. There was no tension on her face, no crease between her brows. How dare she make his life so difficult and act like nothing was wrong! Ondolemar stood up and made his way towards the halls, intent on trying to clear his head.

“Enjoy your walk,” Gisela said, apparently still awake and meditating. Ondolemar scowled at the woman, and stalked out. The nerve of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dinner And Diatribes by Andrew Hozier-Byrne, love that bog man
> 
> As a note, this is the last of my backlog of chapters, so I'll be a bit slower in between writing and actually playing Skyrim. I see your comments and appreciate the feedback and commentary!


End file.
